The Wheel that Breaks the Butterfly
by Scandalacious Intentions
Summary: Four boys whose friendship is destined to change their world. Four entirely different lives entwined by the decision of a hat. Four snapshots of four childhoods.
1. Sirius Black

**Disclaimer: I…I who have nothing.**

**A/N: For various reasons, I have become deeply interested in these four boys - there'll be a chapter for each of them - over the years. There's little to no canonical evidence for any of these; they're just a series of imaginings.**

**This was sparked by both "Falling Down", the Oasis song from which I took the title, and Starkid McFly's fantastic **_**One For Sorrow**_**, which I cannot recommend enough.**

"Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them…"

Oscar Wilde - _The Picture of Dorian Grey._

Sirius' parents meet at eighteen and twenty-three in a dark drawing room draped in burgundy silks. They don't have much of an impression of one another. They don't have a chance at conversation. They don't have a choice.

They are impossibly beautiful creatures; skin so white it is almost translucent, and hair with the colour and unobtrusive shine of jet. Their irises are the same brilliant silver. Both have high, chiseled cheekbones, thin lips, and long noses. They are pure Black, as their children will be.

They agree on little else than what matters in life - purity, nobility, supremacy. Their children must be worthy heirs.

"Sons are imperative. Sons are stronger. Sons carry on a line."

Walburga Black has changed not her name, but her title. She is no longer Miss Black, the eligible daughter of the most influential pureblood family in London. She is Mrs. Black, the exquisitely beautiful wife of her second-cousin.

"Sons are delightful children," her husband warns, "but they can make willful adults."

But she does not carry a child, son or otherwise, to term. Once almost every eighteen months, she wakes to bloodied bed sheets, her husband, to her sobs. She is driven to obsession.

"But the line," she murmurs. "Three girls on one side, and only Alphard who's out of his senses."

Her husband takes to sleeping a floor above, safe from her screams, her wails of disappointment.

Until March of 1959, eleven years after their wedding, she retires to her room and refuses to get out of bed the following morning. The family House Elf, Kreacher, brings her light meals, and she takes a small walk around the garden in the afternoon. She is smiling genuinely, a glint in her eyes for the first time in years.

The following November, she delivers their first-born; a son. Sirius is her prize, her joy at the end of her suffering, her _boy_ - the _heir_.

And he is a delightful child.

* * *

They play together - the heir and the spare. Both sons, even from a young age, have an innate grace and beauty about them. Neither has any idea of their purpose in life, but she thinks Regulus notices the attention, the attempts at a mother's love, that she lavishes upon Sirius.

Neither is unintelligent, but she ensures Sirius has the best education she can offer him. By the age of eight, he is fluent in French and reads Latin with ease. He can read music, but despite many attempts, he cannot play it and so tires quickly of each instrument she pushes him toward.

She instills in him a great sense of familial pride. He is a Black. He is pure. He is equal to royalty. She tells him he is a brilliant boy.

But for all that, he never tells her that he loves her, and she can't understand why.

* * *

It begins the summer before Sirius is due to receive his Hogwarts letter. He is ten when he meets the Muggle twins who live at the end of the street. He is ten when they introduce him to The Beatles. He is ten when he tries on his first pair of jeans.

He is ten when they, and their mother, are killed. Carbon Monoxide poisoning apparently, but he knows better. He's heard his mother talking about Muggle Baiting.

"I don't understand," he says, watching her flick idly through the paper.

"What don't you understand?"

"People have died and nobody notices. Nobody talks about it."

Mrs. Black peers over the top of her newspaper. "What is there to talk about?"

"They weren't poisoned, were they?"

"They weren't your _friends_, Sirius. They weren't your _equals_. They have forced us into hiding and if someone has taken it upon themselves to retaliate, then it is our duty as a pureblood wizarding family, to offer whatever support we can. What's not to understand? You are a Black."

He's ten when he realises just what that means.

* * *

The four of them Apparate to Kings Cross on September 1st 1971. Regulus hangs back, too used to living in Sirius' shadow to miss him once the train turns the corner.

"Write."

He nods, distracted by the crowds of laughing students, the hooting of disgruntled owls.

Mrs. Black is relieved to have Bellatrix willing to look out for him, spare him a seat at the Slytherin table, and introduce him to the right people. It wouldn't do to have eleven years of hard work come to nothing.

Sirius glances over to another boy he assumes must be a first year too. _His _mother flings her arms around him and holds him as though letting go means she will never see him again. Sirius isn't sure whether he wants that. He's not sure what he wants at all.

His mother grips his shoulder in a would be affectionate manner, but her nails dig into his skin. He winces and quickly steps out of reach.

"Goodbye, Sirius."

He refuses to speak to her.

Sirius is her prize, her joy at the end of her suffering, her _boy_ - the _heir_.

And he is quickly becoming a willful adult.


	2. Peter Pettigrew

**Disclaimer: See first chapter.**

**A/N: I mentioned in some review replies how hard this was to write. I think maybe because I'm guilty of having a vague backstory for Peter. I mention it a few times, write it briefly once, but his family features a lot less in my other stuff than the Blacks, the Lupins, and the Potters.**

"When you are a child, there is joy. There is laughter. And most of all, there is trust. Trust in your fellows. When you are an adult, then comes suspicion, hatred, and fear. If children ran the world, it would be a place of eternal bliss and cheer. Adults run the world; and there is war, and enmity, and destruction unending."

Peter David - _Tigerheart_.

Peter's parents are married in a small church in Eglwysilan, a mountain - a small hamlet really, in which the church on the mountain can be found - near Caerphilly.

His father is what is known as "Black Welsh" with pale olive skin, dark hair, and black eyes. His mother is blonde, with captivating aquamarine eyes, and weather-beaten pink cheeks.

They marry because they think they ought to. They have been courting for four years. It seems only natural that their relationship progresses. They are comfortable with one another, but his father isn't entirely sure he is in love with his wife.

Tanwen, Peter's mother, has always been very close to her sister who is only two years younger. Enid is Maid of Honour at her wedding. She is godmother to the unborn child. The three of them, the Pettigrews and Mrs. Pettigrew's sister, spend a great deal of time together. The three of them have drinks together, go to parties together, take holidays together.

Her home is beautiful, the most important people in her world both consider her the most important person in theirs, and she is four months pregnant. Mrs. Pettigrew thinks that no-one has ever been happier than they are.

The boy is born in January. They name him Peter after his father. He has his mother's fair skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes. He looks nothing like his father, inheriting seemingly every recessive gene.

He is a beautiful baby.

* * *

Peter is seven when his father packs his things. He doesn't understand why they can't all be a happy family anymore. He doesn't understand why his mother is sobbing in the kitchen. He doesn't understand why his aunt is not there to comfort her.

But deep down, he thinks he knows. He thinks he's always known something wasn't quite right.

The house is empty but for him and his mother. He's never had a close relationship with his father, but their home is quiet without him.

That's what Peter misses - the laughter, the conversation downstairs. His father spent a great deal of time at his office in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. If not there, he was 'out'. Where 'out' was, Peter couldn't be sure. They've never been close, never been friends, never really even parent and child. His mother has acted as both mother and father for as long as he can remember.

It pains him that he cares so little. He wants to sob like his mother, but he just can't.

She copes. She manages. She exists. Mrs. Pettigrew makes her son one-pot meals, but she barely eats herself. She ensures he is well dressed and tidy. She'd planned to educate him at home, but she sends him to the Muggle school at the end of the street. There, they speak Welsh, but she thinks he is not too old to learn a new language - especially if he spends seven hours a day immersed in it.

So Peter becomes fluent in his native language. He joins the choir, singing hymns, and spends Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings in the Anglican church in which his parents were married.

At school, he excels at Maths and Science, but little else. His mother tells him he will be top of his Potions class. She begins to teach him the basics in her brass cauldron. Peter listens with rapt attention, fascinated by the things his mother can bottle.

* * *

At the age of nine, Peter is invited to his father's wedding. His aunt wants him to sing.

"_What_?"

"Peter, he's asked you if you'll go and, even if you won't sing, you should at least attend. You're his son. You're his only child. It's only right you should be there."

Peter raises an eyebrow. "Really? Because, if you ask me, it's only right _he_ should be _here_."

"Well he's not. What do you want me to say?"

"There's nothing you _can_ say, Mam."

Though he doesn't want to, curiosity gets the better of him, and Peter, though he refuses to sing out of loyalty to the woman who single-handedly raised him, sits in the front row.

"Are you the bride or groom's side?"

"Both," says Peter, without a trace of irony.

So he's placed on the far left, out of the way, where people won't notice him quite so much and be reminded of his father's failed marriage, his father's desertion.

Peter tries not to mind.

Neither his father nor his aunt acknowledge his presence. He feels small, humiliated, as though no-one wants him there. He thinks perhaps they're telling people he insisted on attending despite their protests. The other guests feel it's only polite to ignore his existence as though able to deny it by looking straight through him.

* * *

Their child is a girl; Magdalene. Like Peter, she is a pureblood. Like Peter, she looks like her mother. Like Peter, her father abandons her.

Her mother, Peter's aunt turned step-mother, Enid, dies fifteen days after giving birth. Peter wants to be upset by this. Despite everything that she has done to him, he knows he ought to be upset.

His mother takes the child.

"Magdalene is your sister."

"She is _not_ my sister."

"She is your half-sister."

"She is my _cousin_."

Mrs. Pettigrew sighs. "Peter, please. This is difficult enough for me. She is your sister, all right?"

The baby cries for milk his mother does not have. She is demanding in ways Peter refuses to believe he ever was. At least he was his mother's son. At least he had a right to scream for her at gone midnight. Peter thinks she is driving a wedge between he and his mother. He hates her.

He makes bad things happen to her. Magdalene's hair falls out. Magdalene's hands are worn and shriveled like a little old lady's. Magdalene's irises take on a scarlet hue. He knows his mother can fix all of these things. He's vindictive, but he's not psychotic.

"Peter, stop it."

"Stop what?"

"She is a _baby_," his mother spits. "You are almost ten. Grow up."

* * *

They _both_ grow up. Magdalene is just over a year old when she gains Peter's affection. She is screaming when he picks her up, but as he sets her on his hip as he has seen his mother do, she peers up at him in blatant adoration. No-one has ever looked at him like that before.

When his Hogwarts letter arrives, he can't wait to leave. He can't wait to get out of the small mining town with an industry collapsing around him. He can't wait to leave his sad little life behind him. He cheers when he opens it, and Magdalene claps like a trained seal.

Nine months later, they see him off at King's Cross. Mrs. Pettigrew sets Magdalene on her feet, and holds her son to her chest as though letting go means she will never see him again. She kisses his cheek and releases him.

"Go on. Have a wonderful time."

There are butterflies in the pit of Peter's stomach. He's not sure whether the fluttering is a result of nerves or excitement. He turns to find another boy, hovering in the doorway, halfway between climbing aboard and running back to his parents, and Peter is comforted. He's not the only one terrified.

His mother waves Magdalene's hand. "We love you, Peter. We'll see you at Christmas. And you must write to us."

"I will."

"Good luck. Let me know where you're Sorted."

"You _know_ I'm going to be a Hufflepuff. _Everyone_ knows I'm going to be a bloody Hufflepuff."

His mother frowns. "What's wrong with Hufflepuff? _I_ was a Hufflepuff."

Peter merely looks at her. She leads the same sad little life he so desperately wants to escape. She has taken on a child that she ought to wish never existed. She is a doormat.

"I'll let you know," he says wearily, picking up his trunk and dragging it to the baggage car.

There is no way he is letting anyone sort _him _into Hufflepuff.


	3. Remus Lupin

**Disclaimer: See first chapter.**

**A/N: The obvious section of this chapter, the bite, can be found elsewhere in "The Madness Within", and the aftermath in "Changeling", so I'm not going to go into either here because some people might have read them before.**

**A/N: This was due up on Wednesday 17th but I have a course deadline that day and then a course deadline the next day. So it's up now, but James' chapter won't be uploaded until Thursday 25th. I am going to _try_ to stay on track.**

"Without the support from religion…no father, using only his own resources, would be able to bring up a child."

Leo Tolstoy - _Anna Karenina_

Remus' parents are barely out of childhood themselves when they are rushed into marriage. It is October, so booking the Catholic church is not the crisis it would have been in June.

Since July, John Lupin has decided that _if _there is a God, he is not smiling down on him. His pureblood family have never been fond of his seventeen-year-old Muggle girlfriend, but she is a phase he is going through. She is a young and attractive phase he is going through, and he's only nineteen. He thinks he can't really be held accountable.

He cannot complete Auror training. He needs a pay packet and takes the first job he can find in the Werewolf Capture Unit at the Ministry.

He breaks a vase in her bedroom, deliberately, just so he can repair it with a flick of his wand before he proposes to her. The secrets have to end. His entire life feels like it's ending before it has even begun.

She's married in a loose fitting white dress that only reaches her knees. It's not the wedding she dreamed of as a child. Mrs. Lupin is not even carried over the threshold of their shack of a cottage.

All this mess for such a tiny baby.

* * *

Despite this, Remus' parents dote on him. They love one another and they love their doe-eyed creation. He will grow up to take after his father, but he inherits his mother's Greek nose, charcoal black eyes, and full lips. He is three months old, so people say he's the 'spitting image' of his mother.

The nights draw out and the sun beats down. They take him out to their Devonshire garden and listen to the waves crash against the cliffs on which they live, and the gulls cry as they fall upon the holidaymakers' picnic leftovers. They sing to him out there in the evenings, rocking him to sleep in his mother's arms.

Remus Lupin's life is perfect.

* * *

His half-Italian mother teaches him her language. He speaks it almost fluently, sometimes slipping into it when he is caught off guard. She will attempt to talk to him while he is studying the contents of their garden pond, or reading a particularly fascinating passage of Tolkien's, and he will acknowledge her input with "bene". She's not sure whether or not to encourage this.

She also teaches him to play the piano. He has long fingers and perfect pitch. She has never been more proud to be associated with another human being in her life.

She is the woman who spends the day after the full moon pandering to his every whim. She brings him rich milk chocolate, and strokes his hair as he falls asleep. She reads to him, his eyes too tired to follow the text himself. She kisses his forehead and promises him that everything will be all right. She brings him warm milk and cinnamon to help him sleep when he's in pain. She knows exactly what he needs.

And he adores her.

His father's guilt makes him somewhat overzealous. The Lupins are not terribly wealthy, so Remus is not a spoiled child, but he is certainly indulged. When he says he wants a blue pet, a little delirious after a particularly painful transformation, his father buys a Persian cat from 'a man in the pub' and Remus wakes the next morning wondering why on earth there is an obscenely overweight cat with only one eye, sleeping at the end of his bed.

Their home, and its surrounding land, becomes a veritable menagerie in which they keep an owl, a bloodhound, two cats, four chickens, and a duck.

Even if he were healthy, Remus knows he would not manage to be quite like the other children.

And for this, for giving him a childhood that embraces abnormality, he hero-worships his father.

* * *

Remus attends the Catholic school at which his mother was educated. His father is not entirely convinced it's good for him, but she's given up so much to be with him that he cannot ask her to choose between her husband and her God. So when Remus comes home from afternoon prayers, his father tells him that if he's going to read psalms in the evenings, he might as well read _The Warlock's Hairy Heart_. His father also teaches him about the most wondrous of God's creations - the loophole. And Remus listens in wonder and awe. His father is more of a God to him than the Almighty who has allowed his affliction.

So Remus identifies as Catholic. He prays with a rosary. He reads Latin and attends Mass, but he's never quite as serious as everyone else.

"Who is the most important person in your world, Remus?"

"John Lennon, Sister."

Remus blinks. He almost turns around to look at the boy who said such a thing. His eyes widen in a mix of fear and sheer amazement at his nerve.

The nun taking Latin asks him to hold out his palm. He's not expecting the swish of a cane. It leaves two long, thin red welts on his right hand. It doesn't hurt as much as she thinks it will, and he is left-handed, so he is largely unfazed by it.

It's the humiliation he cannot bear.

"Bring forth him that hath cursed without the camp; and let all that heard him lay their hands upon his head, and let all the congregation stone him," she quotes, and all the other children, none of whom need any excuse to exclude him from their games, stare at him.

He is surprised to find his father at home when he traipses toward the stairs through the kitchen. He cannot close his right hand. His face is tearstained and slightly pink.

"What the _hell _happened to your hand?"

His father looks horrified, so Remus tells him. Shortly afterwards, his mother storms out of the house. When she returns, her hand is cut open and resting in a bowl of ice. Remus wonders if she's been beaten too.

His father pulls her hand out of the bowl and with a flick of his wand, the skin around her knuckles heals, the blood washed away.

"You're damn lucky she's not taking it further."

Emma glares. "What does she expect? He's a _boy_. Boys do that sort of thing. She so much as looks at my son the wrong away again, and I will put her in the ground."

John rolls his eyes. "I suggest you don't. You're probably a prime suspect."

"Don't mock me."

"After what I just saw, I wouldn't dare."

* * *

Sister Greenwood's broken nose does not heal as quickly as she would like. Remus bites back a smile every time she meets his eyes. Her fury is evident, but she does not bring him up on any of the things she _knows_ he has done. There is no proof. It's not plausible he can do most of it. He leaves no trace of his presence, but she _knows _it's him.

In February, he sends her a Valentine from Judas Iscariot. _Be mine in hell_.

In March, he writes, on her board in her own handwriting, _God is truth. God is just. God is not Leviticus._

In April, her apple rots from the inside out. She bites into it and screams.

* * *

He spends his eleventh birthday with his parents and Albus Dumbledore. The early March breeze is too cold to wear only a cardigan, but in her nervousness, his mother forgets to chastise him for this.

"Certain precautions would have to be taken."

John nods. "Of course. We have a room at home. He can come back if he needs to. I'll come for him."

Dumbledore, who remembers John Lupin's escapades all too well, looks at Remus, _really_ looks at him. The boy is fiddling with a stray piece of fabric. He doesn't look much like a werewolf, but that's hardly cause to accept him in September. He doesn't look much like the troublemaker he was expecting John to have produced. There's something about the child, something he can't quite pin down.

"I think we can make arrangements, Mr. Lupin. There's a certain type of tree, really a rather wonderful species."

Remus wants to listen and know what arrangements are being made for his future, but he cannot focus. He's not sure that he wants to go to Hogwarts. He's never been away from his over-protective mother. He's never had friends. He's never been asked to spend all his time with other boys who don't want to know him.

Albus Dumbledore leans across his desk. "I'll be in touch then. We'll discuss this further when I deliver your letter. I'm sorry yours will be a little late, Mr. Lupin."

"That's all right," says John. "We're off to Rome for a few days, staying with my wife's family. There's a gentleman there who says he can help us. You might not need a Whomping Willow at all. We might not have to trouble you."

"Nonsense," says Dumbledore, recognising the boy's embarrassment. "I have always wanted one."

* * *

His parents come to see him off from Platform 9¾. Remus doesn't want to go, and his parents don't want to have to say goodbye to him. His mother doesn't want him to see her cry, so she bites her lip so hard that it bleeds.

"These," she says, handing him a small wrapped package, "are for you and the boys you'll share with. I read somewhere that cakes help you make friends. And I'll make them whenever you want, all right?"

"And don't spend too much time with your head in a book," says his father. "Get out there a bit."

"But not too much," reminds his mother. "You have to do your best. And no matter where you end up, we'll be proud of you."

His father grins. "But if you're not a Ravenclaw, we'll rent your bedroom out."

"John!"

"Oh come on. Remus knows I'm joking, don't you, Remus?" He pulls his son into a tight embrace and Remus squeezes back as hard as he can. "You go and find a compartment. I'll sort your trunk out."

"Write to me!" his mother calls as he boards the train.

Remus nods, waiting in the doorway, and forces himself to find a seat before he can run out to her and sneak back home with them. He passes a compartment containing only one messy-haired boy and he toys with taking one of the many seats around him, but he cannot do it. He hasn't the necessary social skills to engage in small talk. He eats all six muffins before the train has even left the station. He knows he won't have anyone to share them with and he would rather feel sick than sorry.


	4. James Potter

**Disclaimer: See first chapter**

**A/N: Sorry this is late.**

"There," she said. She rocked him back and forth. "There, you foolish, beautiful boy who wants to change the world. There, there. And who could keep from loving a boy so brave and true."  
Kate DiCamillo - _The Magician's Elephant_.

James' parents meet at a party neither of them had wished to attend.

Charlus Potter calls it The Pureblood Club Social. He is not a blood traitor, but he makes no secret of his wish to be one and, as a result, is not particularly popular. He receives invitations to them because he is a high-society pureblood, because it is only right he should be there, but were he to politely decline, he would not be missed. He attends because he knows his presence irritates a great number of people.

Dorea Black, by virtue of her name, is asked to every event in the Wizarding social calendar. She goes to them too. _All_ of them. It makes her feel less lonely when she's standing in a room full of people who know her name.

She intimidates people. Other then members of her own family, she speaks to no-one. So she is surprised to find Potter at her side, nursing a drink, and looking out at the crowd milling around them.

"Social outcast?" he asks.

She raises an eyebrow. "I'm a Black."

"Ah, then it'll be fear."

"What are _you_ doing here then if you ought to be afraid?"

He smirks. "Gryffindors don't run from _anyone_."

Dorea purses her lips. She knocks back her glass and reaches for another.

"Are you always this tetchy?" he asks her.

"Are you always this rude?"

Potter nods. "Though I tend to prefer 'blunt'."

"Then go and be blunt to somebody else."

Potter frowns. "You know, I'm not sure that makes grammatical sense."

She merely looks at him. Another man might perhaps have found it terrifying.

"Come on, Black. Lighten up. I'm buying you a whiskey."

* * *

Their son is born years after they had come to terms with remaining a childless couple. His mother is forty years old and convinced something might be wrong with him.

But James is a healthy child. He has inherited her jet black hair, its untidyness from his father, and her swan-like neck. His father's dark eyes have been lightened to hazel by her silver. Their hue changes with the light; brown, green, and gold.

He is a beautiful baby; his mother's miracle.

* * *

James grows used to being worshipped by his parents. He wants for nothing. His very existence "earns" him gifts. His mother is warm and doting. She is there to hold him when he is afraid in a storm. She is there to administer Pepperup Potion when he catches a cold. She is there to bandage up her little soldier and kiss his battle scars better when he trips.

His father takes him to see the world work. James thinks his dad is the cleverest man who ever lived. They watch Muggles build skyscrapers, climb mountains, and play Sunday morning Quidditch, working up an appetite for a lunch that could feed an army.

While he is young and malleable, they teach him how to be a Potter; where to place his cutlery if he intends to have seconds, the appropriate occasion for Silver Needle tea, and how to hold court from a sick bed. By the time he is eight, James is an undersized adult at social engagements. His upbringing has resulted in a precocious child who, when he can get away with it, is louder, ruder, and messier than most boys his age.

From an early age, he is taught the difference between right and wrong. His father encourages him to think for himself, but does not emphasize the importance of the grey area. James thinks in black and white. He does not readily give second chances, at least not to anyone but himself. Regardless of the consequences, he allows himself several attempts to learn the same lesson. His patience with others, however, quickly wears thin.

He does not have much of a temper. James wants to be a hysterical creature who throws things around a room for effect, but he doesn't have to. At the first signs of his displeasure, his parents fix the problem. Besides, throwing terracotta vases at the walls looks exhausting.

Despite the affluence in which he is raised, and the indulgence of his parents, he manages to be extremely, steadfastly loyal. It is the trait that comes to be quintessentially James. It is difficult to earn James Potter's friendship, a task made no mean feat by his firm belief that he deserves the very best both in his friends and from them. Once gained, it is just as difficult to lose his trust which, James thinks, makes the effort worthwhile.

His father has little time for those who believe in pureblood supremacy and makes no secret of it in front of his son. James learns very quickly that comments that may impress the crowd of die-hards on his mother's side of the family, do not impress his mother very much either.

Fulham is a busy area of Muggle London and his location is all James knows of Muggle culture. He recognises scaled-down Knight Buses, painted red. He knows what a traffic cone looks like. He is vaguely familiar with Muggle money. He doesn't know how many pennies make a pound, but he can pick out a couple of coins.

His father asks him to watch what he thinks are contemporary Muggle films with him. James takes a liking to Jane Russell and is amazed to find she is now nearly fifty.

He doesn't pay much attention to blood status. He has no cause to. He is an only child, educated at home. He has very little contact with other children and, for several years, assumes they are all very much like him.

He's a quick learner and demonstrates magical ability extremely early in life. He is able to control his emotions, and therefore the wandless magic related to them, earlier than most children too. His parents refuse to buy him a wand before he is eleven on principle, but it doesn't stop James pestering for one. His father thinks it'll do him good to be refused something, but it's a little too late for that. He is adored and treated like the Second Coming.

James is not a spoiled child. James has been positively ruined.

* * *

His parents see him off at Kings Cross. His father, for the first time, does not embrace him, but shakes his hand. His mother cries as she kisses her little darling goodbye. James doesn't stick around long. He takes his own trunk and owl to the baggage cart and proceeds to find an empty compartment so that he can be ensured a seat by the window.

He's surprised to look up and find a sheepish looking boy peering in at him. He raises an eyebrow and the other boy scuttles off.

It's not long before someone else appears there, but this boy doesn't even knock before making himself comfortable as far away from James as he can manage. He says nothing for several minutes. He ignores James' blatant stares.

"Oh, hello," says James, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Pleased to meet you. Nice of you to introduce yourself."

The other boy offers him a withering glance. "I'm sorry. Do you _own_ this compartment?"

James leans back in his seat. He's never been challenged before. He sizes the other boy up. Though thin in the extreme, he is evidently healthy and well cared for. He's also very tall for his age. James decides he's not going to press the issue. He raises his eyebrows pointedly and opens the Sport Supplement, pretending to be deeply engrossed in it.

The train has already started moving by the time the other boy gives in. James looks up to find him standing over him, his hand outstretched. James takes it.

"Sirius Black."

"James Potter."

"Who do you think's going to win?" Sirius asks, nodding toward the Quidditch League Tables.

"The Appleby Arrows, I hope."

"Nah. Smart money's on the Caerphilly Catapults. _Everybody_ knows that."

James frowns. "You don't sound Welsh."

"I'm not, but I like to back a winner. I'm just fickle."

James laughs. He's pleased that Sirius takes the seat across the way from him. It's not long until they're joined by other boys, but though he and Sirius are a part of a group, they're taking part in their own private conversations.

He doesn't let on, but James fervently hopes they end up in the same house.

* * *

The next time James Potter boards the train back to King's Cross, he doesn't remember the group of rowdy first-years who sat with he, Sirius, Evans, and Snivellus on the first day. He's sitting with three other boys who feel more like his family than his friends, all of whom were once people James wished to avoid.

Peter Pettigrew is a Potions whiz; the only person he knows who can touch Snape and Evans' blatant brilliance in the subject.

Remus Lupin is little and willowy, but his quick, sometimes sharp, tongue refuses to acknowledge this.

Sirius Black is larger than life, infinitely more trouble than he's worth, and in possession of a mind James thinks is almost as brilliant as his.

And he is their glue, their leader, because really, James knows he's the only one of them with any hope at all.


End file.
